


Stay Your Hand

by Jojolightningfingers



Category: One Outs
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jojolightningfingers/pseuds/Jojolightningfingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Control. Kojima knows when he’s being goaded, and normally he wouldn’t rise to the bait, but Tokuchi riles him so casually, so indifferently. He’s telling him he’s still in control even in this situation, and if Kojima is to prove his lack of fear, he’s going to need to grab that control away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look at that, first fic in the whole tag. Yee

He overhears the conversation while they're walking down the hotel halls. They have a string of away games occupying a week of their time, and Kojima suspects Tokuchi of twisting arms and playing puppetmaster to land the Lycaons in someplace as nice as this. While not exactly opulent, it's not a cut-rate motel either, which is ordinarily the best they can hope for when they travel.

“Say, Tokuchi,” Imai—he thinks it's Imai, anyway—says. Kojima tunes in without thinking, momentarily surprised that the team was actively attempting to strike up conversation with their rather forbidding pitcher outside a dugout. Tokuchi makes a noise, not quite interested, not quite dismissive, but permitting a continuation. Imai takes the opportunity.

“You got anyone back home? Girlfriend, wife, family?”

The question makes Kojima realize that outside of his pitching prowess and cold, snakelike personality, nobody really knows much about Tokuchi's life. Curiosity snags him; Kojima steps out to keep pace with them on their way back to the rooms. He hangs back, to avoid intruding.

Tokuchi is as unreadable as he always is. “No.”

“Really?” Imai seems shocked. “What about now? You're pretty much a celebrity these days, I bet the girls trip over themselves to give you the time.” Privately, Kojima doesn't think that getting involved in any sort of relationship where Tokuchi has the potential for control (which is all of them) is a good idea. Then again, not everybody knew that.

“No.” Tokuchi faces Imai midstep, who freezes like he's seen a ghost. Or the devil. Kojima's expression takes on a distasteful cast, not that either of them would know. He can only imagine the look Tokuchi's giving him.

The pitcher pauses at his door, opens it, and goes in. Imai doesn't follow. Kojima steps into his own room to change clothes before he steals into the pitcher's room to have some words with him. Tokuchi has the window cast open; he's standing on the balustrade, staring out over the city, a cigarette in his mouth. He's changed out of his uniform too, and is now wearing black slacks and no shirt. A habit they'd noticed, that.

He also says nothing to Kojima when he hears the door shut, purposefully loud, behind him. It's obvious that Kojima has to speak first if he wants to get anything out of Tokuchi. The pitcher keeps his eyes trained on the cityscape when Kojima approaches him.

“Don't smoke,” is the first thing to come to his mind. “You'll ruin your lungs.” Why open with that though, he thinks. Didn't he come here to scold him about something other than self-destructive habits?

Tokuchi might as well be made of stone for all the emotion he shows at that. He drags in a breath, braces the cigarette between his fingers, blows the smoke out as he sighs. It's a none-too-subtle defiance, a dare that Kojima beat around the bush any longer.

He does not. He lets Tokuchi stand there, immobile, for another minute. He hadn't expected Tokuchi to fall for that one anyway. “It's been months since you joined,” he starts, and Tokuchi doesn't react. “I know that you're so successful because of your intimidation and your psychological warfare, and I'm not against you using that on our opponents. But at least be civil to our teammates.”

Finally, Tokuchi turns to him; the motion drops ash off the end of the cigarette. “Eavesdropping isn't a vice I expected you to have,” he says, entirely eschewing Kojima's statement.

“Give me your word, Tokuchi. Scaring them won't help you get out of this any quicker.”

“Why should I? I owe you a championship; nothing more and nothing less. Civility was never part of the deal and it's too late to change the conditions now.” Tokuchi stubs out his cigarette on the handrail, flicks it over the edge. His eyes are frigid when he looks back at Kojima.

It's a threat scare tactic that Tokuchi is fond of and Kojima is too familiar with to heed. Nevertheless, though his conscious self doesn't mind the warning, his body reacts with visceral apprehension. He's careful in choosing his next words. “It has nothing to do with the terms of our bet.” Tokuchi's piercing gaze remains unbroken. His eyes don't even narrow at the words. “They're on your side. At least pretend to get along with them.”

“And what will you do if I refuse?” Tokuchi answers after a substantial pause. “Do you think you can force me to do what you want?” The corners of his lips turn up into a knifelike smile, eyes glittering like ice in the sun. It's clear he thinks that Kojima wouldn't dare. That he's just like the rest of them, watching him out of the corner of one eye, waiting for the dagger in the back.

Kojima is too smart to show him his back in the first place. “I'm not afraid of you,” he states; simple, direct, almost nonchalant.

Tokuchi falls silent, but it's a calculating silence. One that nearly makes Kojima regret saying anything at all. Then the pitcher scoffs and averts his gaze with a decidedly thunderous mien, digging in his pockets. He pulls out a lighter and a pack of smokes; Kojima lets him stick one in his mouth and bring the lighter halfway to his lips before he snatches the cigarette out from between his teeth, just to prove his point. One thin eyebrow tilts up, and nothing else moves an inch. Kojima flicks the cigarette over the balcony, meeting his stare. The following quiet stretches uncomfortably long.

Eventually, Tokuchi turns and leaves the terrace. Kojima watches him drop the lighter and the cigarettes on the nightstand and get on the bed.

“Prove it,” comes the demand. “Prove you're not afraid of me if you're so damn sure of it.”

The moments drip down the walls in the oppressive stillness. Kojima approaches, footsteps muted. Tokuchi doesn't twitch when the ace hitter of the Lycaons stands over him. The direction that this took, and the small smirk that Tokuchi's wearing, makes Kojima think that the pitcher had been planning this. He must have known from the start that Kojima had been listening, that he would be reprimanded, that Kojima would tell him things that he already knew. And Kojima had played right into his hands.

That, more than anything, pisses him off. Tokuchi had maneuvered him into a situation where he had to do what Tokuchi asked of him or be branded a liar. And he'd done it so flawlessly. Kojima hadn't suspected a thing.

It's infuriating. It's terrifying. Kojima bends down, not at all fooled by the serene expression Tokuchi has on right now. “I should have known better.”

“Never underestimate me,” Tokuchi all but purrs. “That was your first mistake.”

They both know that. Underestimating Tokuchi the first time had resulted in the most complete defeat Kojima had ever experienced.

Another thing they both know, though, is what happened after that.

“And your first mistake,” Kojima sighs, “is assuming I'm going to back down meekly and _let_ you win.”

Tokuchi barks out a sharp laugh. Kojima descends. The pitcher's fingernails feel like talons even through his shirt, latching on in the same way Kojima's teeth latch on to his neck. Tokuchi hisses, his lean, lanky body arcing upwards.

They don't need foreplay for this; not traditional foreplay at any rate. Not to release aggression or fulfill a mutual desire.

If Tokuchi thinks he's going to come out on top, though, he's got another thing coming. Kojima has height, weight, and strength all on Tokuchi, and since it's the only advantage he has to his name, he's damn sure going to use it. He gives Tokuchi barely enough time to struggle out of his pants before he flips the pitcher on his stomach. It must have been at least somewhat unexpected, because Tokuchi swears at him under his breath.

The thought occurs to him, then, that since they've met, Tokuchi has not once uttered a sound that he didn't intend to make. Another demonstration of just how in control he is.

Tokuchi waits patiently for Kojima to shed his clothes as well, though he tenses when Kojima's hands frame his narrow hips. Large hands. Hands that he'd expected to break his arm when he lost. Kojima doesn't see him grit his teeth: he refuses to get sentimental over it. The pitcher sits up at his urging, sliding back to straddle Kojima's thighs. The hitter is solid at his back, he can feel the rise and fall of his breath as he reaches around.

Kojima doesn't feel him flinch or move much at all when he curls his fingers around his cock. It does seem like a latent string of tension snaps; the pitcher's shoulders drop a fractional amount, his chin tips up. Kojima makes sure to study him as discreetly as he can, stroking him. Tokuchi may be one of the most cunning, guile-filled people he's ever met, but even he is human and therefore subject to the effects of carnal pleasure. By the time the pitcher's fully hard, he can hear the soft panting coming from him, though Tokuchi refuses to let him see his face. Kojima runs his thumb over the head of his arousal and Tokuchi's head leans back to rest on his shoulder. He doesn't make a single noise beyond that.

Control. Kojima knows when he's being goaded, and normally he wouldn't rise to the bait, but Tokuchi riles him so casually, so indifferently. He's telling him he's still in control even in this situation, and if Kojima is to prove his lack of fear, he's going to need to grab that control away from him.

Kojima sets his hand on his stomach, drags it slowly up his body. Tokuchi watches and breathes, impassive. The hitter feels his collarbone under his fingertips, the dip between each bone as well. He keeps going higher. Higher. Until his fingers wrap around his neck. He squeezes.

Tokuchi makes a strangled grunting sound, jerking against Kojima's grasp. His throat hitches against Kojima's palm and the hitter feels the pitcher's cock throb. Tokuchi holds onto him in return, pulling at his fingers and wrist. Kojima slackens his grip after a few seconds and takes a deep sense of satisfaction in the harsh gasp that tears from the pitcher's lips. Tokuchi's chest heaves as he sucks air; some of it leaves him in a breathless, forced groan, when Kojima decides to capitalize on his moment of weakness.

“This is what you meant, isn't it?” Kojima asks of him, shifting as he stirs to life at the novelty of seeing Tokuchi nearing anything resembling vulnerability. His thumb presses to the slit; a shiver shoots through Tokuchi's body.

He laughs, but it's hoarse and ragged. “Less talking,” Tokuchi huffs, voice rough from abuse, and leans over to snatch a bottle of lotion off the nightstand. He hands it to Kojima, who takes it. When a finger curls into Tokuchi's body, the pitcher goes loose, head lolling back against Kojima's shoulder. Kojima keeps an arm around his waist to support him. Tokuchi doesn't resist it. His hips roll with the motion of Kojima's fingers, thighs spread wide across the hitter's. A low groan slithers out of his throat, tempting Kojima to go further, push in another finger. His body feels tight, unused. Kojima refuses to consider the implications of that.

In time, Tokuchi's impatience becomes evident. The pitcher pulls himself off of his fingers and tosses a look over his shoulder. Kojima doesn't react to it. Getting Tokuchi to move how he wants so he can have a hope of getting inside him is less than pleasant. The pitcher lazily fights him every step of the way. He tugs his arms out of Kojima's grasp and Kojima eventually gets frustrated enough to pin his arms behind his back. He has the suspicion that Tokuchi could free himself if he wanted to, and the low chuckle he hears confirms it. It doesn't matter; he's still now. Kojima makes use of the lotion, waits for Tokuchi to relax, and pushes.

He'd expected heat, but not such a level of pressure. Tokuchi  _is_ tight on the inside, and he keeps getting tighter the farther and deeper he presses in. He has to let go of Tokuchi's wrists to steady the pitcher on his lap. In the back of his mind, Kojima wishes he had a mirror, so he could see Tokuchi's carefully constructed mask crack and shatter all at once. He knows it does. The pitcher's back bows when reaching for the headboard; the strength of his grip makes his knuckles turn white. His hands and shoulders are quivering.

Concern keeps him from moving, even though his body is making its demands on him. “Are you...” He stops because his voice is shaking. “Are you okay?” Steadier, he thinks. That's good.

“If you have time to worry, you have time to _move_.” The stress on the last word isn't lost on Kojima. Neither is how rigid and tense his voice is. The words themselves tell Kojima that Tokuchi's not in pain.

So he moves. He spreads his knees for balance and thrusts in deep, sinking into the tight, hot body on top of him. Tokuchi's back hollows; Kojima feels him push back, hears him moan breathlessly. With every rock of his hips, Tokuchi jolts from the force. The headboard creaks under the strain of two bodies moving so violently.

It is violent, after all. Soft words and gentleness are for enamored couples, not for people who are fighting for control. The sex is rough, loveless, and satisfying in being so. Neither of them would accept anything different. Kojima's deep, raspy grunts mingle with Tokuchi's forced-out breaths, falling from between gritted teeth and clenched jaws. Tokuchi has to push back with all his might to keep Kojima from slamming his head against the wall. The sheer power Kojima's capable of, while not surprising, is certainly more than Tokuchi bargained for. He had expected Kojima to restrain himself at least a little, to avoid hurting their ace, but this caught him quite unawares. He wasn't holding back in the slightest, deaf to the voices in his head that cautioned him against harming their trump card.

That  _excites_ him. To others, it would seem he's lost control. To Tokuchi, it's a bold statement.  _I'm the one in control now. Try to keep up._ No sooner does he think it than Kojima hooks his arm under his shoulder and grabs him by the throat again. He grunts and takes his hands off the headboard to tear at Kojima's hand. Kojima pulls him up against his body, squeezing harder. His other hand snakes around the pitcher's cock. Tokuchi's throat works as pleasure twines through his body, combining with the lack of oxygen to leave him dizzy and lightheaded. He has to hold onto Kojima or fall forward. The helplessness isn't something he's used to. Or something he's opposed to. Kojima's hips had stilled while tugging him up; they start again, canting forward. Just as Tokuchi thinks he'll pass out, he can breathe again. The sudden flood of air into his lungs brings with it a tingling sense of dangerous excitement, fueling his arousal. The next thrust of Kojima's hips prompts a moan, choked off halfway through by an unyielding grip. He can feel bruises springing up where Kojima's fingers press cruelly into the sides of his neck.

At the end, Tokuchi's so numbed by the sheer pleasure of a rough hand on his neck and a gentler one on his cock that he isn't sure how long they've been on the bed. All he feels is fuzzy, light. Distantly, he's aware that his eyes are shut tightly, teeth bared in a feral snarl, something slick dripping down the corner of his mouth. Blood or saliva, he's not sure which, and it doesn't matter. Kojima's keeping pace, showing admirable stamina for someone his age. Tokuchi tenses as he rocks in, and lightning strikes up his spine. He opens his mouth to cry out at its intensity, faded grip renewing on Kojima's arm, nails raking his skin. Kojima clenches his fist and the sound sticks in his throat. He's left gasping noiselessly as he finally comes, fucking the tight tunnel Kojima's hand makes around his cock desperately, anything to prolong the high. At the same time he comes back to his senses, he notices that Kojima's stopped moving, and he slumps forward to hold himself against the headboard. Around Kojima's hips, Tokuchi's thighs tremble. He doesn't think he's had it that good, that intense, in years.

Kojima lifts the pitchers hips and slides out, stifling a groan of discomfort as overworked, cramped joints and muscles stretch. Tokuchi sways slightly and falls to his side with a grunt, wordless aside from that. Something thick and white oozes down his leg.

Tokuchi wipes his mouth and looks at it. Just spit then, he hadn't bitten his lips through. His neck feels swollen and thick, and a headache's beginning to prickle behind his eyeballs. His insides are sore, rubbed raw by Kojima's girth. He needs a bath but he can't find the energy to stand up.

Silence slithers against their eardrums until Tokuchi counts five minutes that Kojima's stuck around uninvited. “Why are you still here?” he asks, irritable. He hides a wince—talking hurts, his voice seems to claw its way out of his chest with a body made of broken glass.

“I've proven my point. Give me your word.”

Tokuchi quashes the urge to groan with a surprising amount of difficulty. Right, he'd lost again. “Ah. I guess that's true. Fine then, I give you my word that I'll at least attempt to play nice with the team.” He turns his head to give Kojima a look. “Satisfied?”

Kojima nods and hauls himself up, bending to retrieve his clothes. “I'll be watching you,” he warns, shrugging his shirt back on and doing up the buttons. Tokuchi scoffs, watching him walk out the door without another word.

In the end, the will to clean up deserts him. His body gives out and he drifts off to sleep, musing over power shifts. At least Kojima was kind enough to lock his door so he wouldn't be discovered in this state. He's had more than enough hierarchical upsets for one evening.

 


End file.
